The Poor Man
A two-day coffee withdrawal ends in an ordinary shopping centre café—and an unexpectedly expensive lesson in modern Norwegian pricing. A small story about coffee, inflation and the feeling that everyday life has quietly become a luxury.
From the Shady Side of the Car Park
After spending far too long sitting in the sun on our slightly crooked concrete bench—with nothing but a few wooden planks for comfort, a light breeze for protection and the occasional passing car for entertainment—it felt wise to retreat into the shade.
We wandered around the corner, to where the large car park meets the McDonald's and the shopping centre entrance, and there it was: a fenced-off seating area, completely empty, hidden in the shade.
And surely they served coffee.
I hadn't had a cup in two days.
Somewhere inside my brain, a tiny orange warning light had begun flashing.
CRITICAL, it probably said, handwritten on a strip of white tape.
So we sat down and admired the view: a half-full car park and a steady procession of Norwegians loading and unloading their electric cars after another successful round of recreational shopping.
I have always believed that if you use a place like that, you ought to buy something.
Besides, I genuinely needed the coffee.
Inside waited an almost theatrical display of cakes, pastries, chocolate-covered things and assorted desserts whose exact purpose I couldn't identify.
My mission, however, was coffee.
Nothing more.
I greeted the woman behind the counter.
She greeted me just as warmly.
At that point I had no idea she was about to relieve me of what remained of my savings.
"I'll have a coffee," I said. "A double Americano, please."
She smiled.
Perhaps a little too warmly.
"To drink here or take away?" she asked.
Then she prepared the coffee with calm professionalism, placed an ordinary white cup on a matching saucer, gently slid it across the counter and wished me a pleasant afternoon.
It was only after I had wandered back through the revolving doors and returned to my table that I unfolded the receipt from my wallet.
I must have heard the price when she said it.
My brain had apparently refused to process the information.
63 kroner.
At that price, the coffee had better be extraordinary.
It wasn't.
The receipt lying in front of me says "Poor Man."
Not literally, of course.
But it might as well have.
Like a small sarcastic insult added free of charge after the robbery.
At the moment I have around 30,000 kroner in unpaid bills sitting in my online bank account.
Most of them belong to the Norwegian government.
Being Norwegian has never been a particularly inexpensive hobby.
And when a simple cup of coffee costs 63 kroner, it leaves a rather bitter taste.
